Welcome to the [Redacted] Week in Review, [darling readers]. I’m your host, Obscene Alex. Let’s get down to business. This week, with a couple of exceptions, our topic is going to be goaltending.
Today, we debut a new weekly feature here at III Communication — DemocraThree. Every Friday, bloggers from around The Heptarchy will update us on the news and notes from their teams (with that fancy header image courtesy of Mike D and like democracy itself, it’s a perpetual work-in-progress). Yes, we ripped this off from TRH’s Pacific War Room; no, we don’t care. And since we ripped it off, we’ll follow their lead and go in standings order.
It is a hotbed of sin and horror. It is where good hockey withers away like a collapsing factory in a service-based economy — or like a service-based economy in a world of consumerism. It is so bad that all economic metaphors apply to it equally, even ones that are complete opposites.
It’s so bad it’s awfulness was unpredictable — or beyond prediction, because it was so apparent.
It is both overrated and underperforming.
It is not a sleeping giant. It is a creeping giant, crawling slothlike down a hill to a boomshaw where it will try to swim but fall to the bottom of the beautiful abyss under its own slovenly weight to drown and eventually be consumed by heretofore undiscovered creatures with no eyes.
That’s a lot of pretty words to describe a decrepit scene. And these days, people want numbers. Oh, but the numbers. There is no poetry in arithmetic, which is fine because there’s no poetry to describe how woeful the Metro is, unless there’s undiscovered verse from an especially dark day in Emily Dickinson’s life. Here’s the numbers anyway:
Today In History
The English — employing the longbow and a large number of English and Welsh archers — defeated a numerically superior French army, turning the tide in the very long war.
One great legacy of the battle is the St. Crispin’s Day Speech from William Shakespeare’s Henry V, the greatest fictional political speech of all time. It ends thus:
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.